


WOVEN 「３」

by DEPECHEWIZARD



Series: Woven [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alcoholism, Bashir fucks better than Dukat obvs, Bipolar Garak, Cardassian reproductive anatomy, Consensual, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit sm00t, First Time, Garak has drug issues, Garak is a spoonie for the ages, Garak is fucking repressed oh my god, Garak wants to be a bottom, Getting Together, Julian is trans, Lizard sex, M/M, Other, Penetration, consent!!!, lizard dick, sad angsty queers get a root, safe sex is good sex, tails are sexy OK, these two have some fucking ISSUES, yes they still have keyhole surgery Ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-03 21:30:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20273911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DEPECHEWIZARD/pseuds/DEPECHEWIZARD
Summary: "He isn't the only one playing dumb. What with the disabled implant nestled in his head, the drugs he needs as night sets in, just to consider closing his eyes; the interval between functionally identical nights and mornings in this godforsaken place have robbed him of too much of his health. He's surprised he's not shedding his skin at this point.On the other hand, the double incisions on Julian's chest, though faded, remain as ghosts to tether him to reality. The scars above Julian's groin however, present a bigger question to Garak. He traces one claw, as lightly as he feels capable of with shaking fingers; of course he goes to pieces now-Bashir smiles lazily at him, through the Kanar and some kind of naked awe. His eyes are as bottomless, as hazy as some kind of paradise."The finale of the Woven Series. Our boys finally get it together!





	WOVEN 「３」

**Author's Note:**

> This is the third work in the Woven series. Once again, thank you so much to tinsnip for this masterpiece: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719479
> 
> My Julian/Garak playlist is being updated all the time on Spotify, have a squiz: https://tinyurl.com/yxvwgtxd  
Shuffle for best effect.
> 
> I want to thank everyone who's read this fic, given me feedback and support, kudos, love reacts and thanks. The writing process has gotten me through the worst of an illness since I left hospital four days ago. ;''3 <3

_"I've felt better/I've been up all night/I can feel it coming/The morning light/_

_The air is so cold here/It's so hard to breathe/We'd better take cover/Will you cover me?/_

_Way up here with the Northern lights/Beyond you and me/I dreamt of us in another life/One we've never reached/_

_You know we're sinking/We could fade away/I'm not going down/Not today/_

_The air is so cold here/Too cold to see/We have to take cover/Cover me/"_

\- ‘Cover Me,’ Depeche Mode (2017)

* * *

**VI**

He isn't the only one playing dumb. What with the disabled implant nestled in his head, the drugs he needs as night sets in, just to consider closing his eyes; the interval between functionally identical nights and mornings in this godforsaken place has robbed him of too much of his health. He's surprised he's not shedding his skin at this point. 

On the other hand, the double incisions on Julian's chest, though faded, remain as ghosts to tether him to reality. 

The scars above Julian's groin however, present a bigger question to Garak. He traces one claw, as lightly as he feels capable of with shaking fingers; _of course_ he goes to pieces now-

Bashir smiles lazily at him, through the Kanar and some kind of naked awe. His eyes are as bottomless, as hazy as some kind of paradise.

"It's called keyhole surgery. I had my ovary removed.” 

Garak frowns a little. “Surely it’s inadvisable to remove one’s reproductive organs,” he comments quietly. Julian’s gaze doesn’t waver.

“I’ve still got one. It’s OK. I think I can still have children…” He sighs, sounding exhausted. “If I wanted them.”

Garak says nothing; the thought of Julian Bashir, with child, twists his insides so sweetly he’s afraid he’ll bolt like a spooked horse.

Garak isn’t even sure that Julian isn’t cold; naked to the waist, uniform jumpsuit slung low around his hips. He realises mutely, distantly, that Julian’s gaze is trained squarely on the low neckline of Garak’s tunic. _He must know._

Once again, he’s not sure _if_ and _how_ he’s still standing here, firm in his boots, as Julian traces his collarbones, fingers scalding against Garak’s chilly skin. 

“_Elim_. How about I take you to bed? You’re freezing.” 

Now, it _had_ to be now; Garak’s head spins and lurches, distinct from the Kanar slipping through his bloodstream. _He needs a another hypospray._ He can’t have one. 

Julian’s hands roam relentlessly to his neck ridges, toying with his scales. His voice catches in his throat. When it finally comes out, it’s tiny, unbalanced. 

“That would be welcome.”

**VIII**

Soon enough they are on the bed; Garak’s claws shaking through Julian's hair, as softly as he can manage while pinned to the mattress beneath him. This kind of helplessness; _this_ loss of control, is everything Garak has craved after years upon _years_ of sleeping alone in this wretched room. 

Julian kisses him, desperately missing his lips every few seconds, grinding his hips forward, sighing and gasping, eyes shut. 

Garak’s shoes and socks are gone; his tunic thrown carelessly aside, trousers rumpled on top of the pile. Julian has discarded everything, too, rangy and draped with velvet shadows in the low light. Garak’s blood isn’t cold anymore; his temperature is shooting up with the exhilarating effort of it all; blankets forgotten on the carpet. The sheets beneath him are growing stickier by the second, and Julian spreads his legs wider without a trace of medical professionalism, face flushed right up to his ears. Garak shuts his eyes tight to savour this; etch it onto the graffitied, unbuffed walls of his mind. As if to assist in this, grasping his thigh, he digs a claw between two scales. His voice is a hoarse growl now, quavering and guttural. Julian, _damn him_, runs his tongue, _hot, wet_, along Garak’s _kinat’hU,_ taking the breath out of him as quickly as it rises to the surface. Immediately, as Garak’s head spins and his tail thrashes on the floor, Julian slips one warm, assured finger past his _Chuva_, brushing his sticky, tingling scales just barely, _before-_

The doctor knows what he’s doing, Garak notes faintly, beneath a long, low moan, as Julian’s finger moves deeper into his _ajan._ Even so, he’ll evert if Julian pushes any further.

“_Dear,_” he begins, his voice a low rasp, “…mind my_ prUt-_“

He sighs as Julian withdraws the finger to the opening of his _ajan_, teasing his scales.

“Is that better?”

It’s the first he’s spoken since they started, save for heaving breaths and long, shaking groans. 

“_Yes_,” Garak bites out, hips rocking from side to side; a boat hitting a rising wave. Julian likes this feedback, obviously, as he slides one finger inside himself, clitoris protruding neatly above flexing fingers, slick and trembling-

Garak everts in one gasp, trickles of secreted lube running onto his thighs as he rears up, taking a deep brown nipple in his mouth.

“_Elim_,” Julian chokes out, chest heaving, “Condoms.”

Garak arcs his back and sucks in as much air as he can. “Replicator,” is all he can manage, struggling for breath. As neatly as he inserted it, Julian slides his finger from Garak’s _ajan_, grazing scales as he goes. Propped up against the pillows, tail twined around one leg, toying with his own ridges, Garak watches Julian replicate a pack of condoms with shaking fingers. He closes his eyes, trying to focus his mind as his prUt twitches against his _Chuva_. It’s good; perhaps too much so. He can hear Julian fumbling with a wrapper, breath fast and steady in the silence. 

“Are you OK, Garak?”

He opens his eyes, and there he is; surgery scars silver in the starlight, nipples erect, eyes over-bright.

“Oh yes, my dear.”

“Can I put this condom on you?” Julian is, surprisingly, completely steady, practiced and calm. Garak bobs his head. _Yes._

Julian makes quick work of it. He’s found Garak’s bottle of lube, wherever he left it, years ago when he stopped entertaining guests. 

Julian is rocking back and forth on his own fingers now, preparing as Garak’s prUt throbs like his heart in his chest. He’s trying his very hardest not to fucking _beg_ for some kind of touch. He’s lost in the sensation; his earlier hypospray still creeping through his system, his prUt hard against his _Chuva._ Julian’s forehead is sweaty, his hair stuck to his face. Garak traces it aside with one claw, just as Julian sinks onto him, back arching forwards, fists balled in the bedsheet. 

At first, all Garak feels is a perfect warmth, slick walls, Julian panting above him. He falls, beyond the mattress, into the blissful darkness behind his eyes and the mass of sensation as Julian settles, pushing him deeper. Fully everted, Garak’s in as far as he can go. 

“Elim,” Julian rasps, _sotto voce_, settling into a slow, rolling motion, jerking forwards on every other stroke. “Is this OK?”

Garak nods shakily, stretching his neck back against his pillows. Experimentally, and with effort, he twines his tail around Julian’s waist; holding him steady against the trembling in his thighs. This earns him two hands, pinning him to the bed; fingers so warm they could burn his skin. He’s completely helpless, and, most interestingly, he _craves_ more. 

“_Julian_,” he chokes out, voice wavering, and it’s sincere. Vulnerable, almost terrified, but completely honest, open, _wanting_. 

Julian buries his face in Garak’s neck, kissing his scales and ridges as if they really _are_ beautiful, almost as if Garak, too, has a warm heart and warm blood in his veins. “Please,” he murmurs, hips grinding against Julian’s; their chests aligned, lungs burning just the same, and Garak doesn’t need to complete the sentence that dies in his throat.

Julian makes love to him anyway, jaw quivering, teeth scraping Garak’s scales. He keeps Garak pinned to the bed, relentlessly, rocking back and forth against his tail. 

“_Oh,_” he hisses suddenly, and Garak knows what’s about to happen. “_I’m gonna_-“

He moans; long and low, body quaking in Garak’s arms, and Garak loses himself in the moment, ejaculating so suddenly that he too is wracked by vast tremors. As the orgasm hits his brain, any remaining strength he’d clung to, scrabbling with his claws, is wiped out instantly. The sensations hit him in waves like no mixture of drugs ever could- Kanar, hyposprays, replicated opioids- this cocktail immobilises him completely, losing him in a well of sweet noise. 

Julian gasps a little, ever so quietly, and Garak remembers that they are two people, still, rather than one. He’s dimly astonished, under the thundering layers of hypnagogia, that the stars still exist outside the portholes, and that he could ever be this _contented._ Julian slips his hand through Garak’s hair, mussed against the pillow.

He fixes his eyes on Julian, still sprawled astride him, chest rising and falling steadily. He smiles; softly, languorously. Garak doesn’t break the connection.

** IX **

They’ve discarded the soiled bedsheet and ensconced themselves under a pile of blankets. Julian, who immediately seized the softest of the lot, has nestled himself against Garak, matching the curves of his body. Garak can practically feel the heat rolling off him in waves, and he likes to think that he can accumulate it by harnessing the sheer power of his mind. He is warm, at any rate, curled up here with Bashir- _Julian_\- at his side. 

With an almost professional interest, Julian surveys Garak’s _Chufa._

“Can I touch it?”

“Of course.”

Garak closes his eyes, just for a moment, to savour the tingling of careful fingers.

“I never see other Cardassian men wearing makeup,” Julian comments. “Does it mean anything?”

For all his lovely naivety, he doesn’t miss much.

“No,” Garak begins, holding in the tiniest of sighs. “You wouldn’t. I would bank my latinum on the practice having fallen out of fashion.”

Julian’s curiosity is apparent, and Garak doesn’t have the heart to rebuff him.

“When I was about nineteen rotations, and for some time after that, it was fashionable for Cardassian men _like me _to wear purple in the centre of their _Chufa._” 

“Like a signal?” Julian’s smile is a little too understanding. 

“I suppose so, yes.” Garak won’t entertain the notion of opening _that_ door in his head; the door that opens to a place where he is twenty again, with Gul Dukat, eyes full of lust, sizing him up from across a crowded room.

Julian doesn’t seem to feel the need to push. His arms, entwining Garak, pull him closer. It’s so _warm_ here, Garak could sleep forever. 

“My dear,” he smiles drowsily, “I’m touched that you took the time to prepare before making love to me.”

Julian, after everything he’s seen in this bed, appears to blush. 

“You didn’t want me making a right arse of myself though, did you?”

Garak chuckles, just a little. He can’t help it, after all. 

**/END/**


End file.
